


i was never yours

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Age Difference, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dry Orgasm, Gratuitous Headcanon, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Patch 4.1: The Legend Returns, Preteen Sex, Return to Ivalice, Size Difference, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 22:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21126299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: “Lord Larsa. You should be in bed.”





	i was never yours

**Author's Note:**

> prompt(s): size difference, edging
> 
> not a single thing in this fic is good or nice or moral. we wrote this to be a character study and depiction of normalization of abuse. while gabranth may consider himself kinder than vayne, his actions too are abuse: larsa is unable to provide informed consent.
> 
> edited 12/2019: continuity fuckups whoops. fixed now

With the children now old enough they need no nurses in their sleep, a hush comes upon the halls of the imperial palace late at night. It is thick but ever tenuous, and Larsa yæ Galvus hates to disturb it with his sleepless pacing; even with what few servants remain awake at this hour, he always worries after the chance his footfalls—resounding in the silence—will alert someone to his presence.

He has nothing to fear but perhaps well-meaning concern, should he be found, but still when he checks in upon his sister and nephew in their beds, he does so in bare feet, cold upon the stone floor. Cisura and Varis seem so _young_ to him; at Cisura’s age he was well accustomed to his lord brother’s bed, deemed grown enough to take him properly. And while Varis is bigger than Larsa, and older, he too lacks the maturity Vayne so cherishes in Larsa. The two of them pass their days in lessons and evenings playing pretend. At night, they sleep peacefully, undisturbed by all but Larsa’s own anxieties. Content to see them both sound, Larsa dithers in the intersection of the corridor a long moment before he makes to leave the children’s wing.

The path to the quarters occupied by the Legatus of the IVth on those occasions he finds himself in the capital is at once brief and overlong: enough of a walk for Larsa to begin to wonder, as he does every time he makes this journey, if it is safer for them both that he turn back, but tonight as ever he finds himself upon the threshold. With no small amount of guilt he knocks softly in the pattern they had devised, so that if indeed Gabranth is awake to hear it, he might know it is Larsa who calls upon him.

The door opens nearly at once. Noah van Gabranth is out of his armor, dressed down in a loose-fitting shirt and trousers with his reading glasses pushed halfway down his nose. He pushes them up to rest in his hair so he might better peer down at Larsa as he lets him inside, shutting the door even as he says, “Lord Larsa. You should be in bed.”

Larsa meets Gabranth’s frown with a soft smile, little more than upturned lips. “Sleep seems resolved to elude me this night.” It isn’t that he hadn’t tried, but he had tossed and turned in his bed for what felt to him like hours, feeling Vayne’s fingers upon his cheek so vividly it seemed more than memory, his body—his racing heart—unaware the touch it anticipated had been preempted. “I thought to—well.” Unsure of how to continue, Larsa instead brings his hands up to rest on the hard plane of Gabranth’s chest, rising and falling with his breath.

Without his plate Gabranth is warm underneath his hands, his heartbeat strong, his breath faster now for Larsa’s touch. As he brings it lower Larsa lifts his eyes to meet Gabranth’s, the darkness of his pupils swallowing up his irises and only _want_ to be found in them; when Larsa has held his gaze for but a moment he turns away.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, and something within Larsa at that moment simply shatters. His lip trembles, willing himself not to waste his tears, not on _this_—he has so rarely cried where Gabranth might see since he was a child, and he cannot bear him see now.

He clears his throat, calms his voice. “You don’t want me?”

“No,” says Gabranth without hesitation, and Larsa means to pull away; he has no sooner stepped back than Gabranth lays his hands upon Larsa’s shoulders to draw him close. Beneath Larsa’s hands his heart pounds, near as quick as Larsa’s in his distress. “No—yes, Larsa, _yes_, I want you more than anything.”

“But then—_oh,_” Larsa says in sudden understanding, and his next words spill out desperate, frantic, in but a single, dizzying breath. “My lord brother will not be visiting my quarters tonight to find me absent. A matter presented itself quite suddenly in one of the territories—some administrative matter or another—and he does not expect to return for some days. You—you need not fear reprisal.”

“It is not for my own sake I fear.”

Vayne ever wishes Larsa bear marks of his claim following any significant length of time apart; Larsa does not fear the inevitable so dreadfully to deny himself this comfort. “He shan’t ever learn of our liaison. Not if we’re careful.” Gabranth’s expression is pained; Larsa’s heart is likewise heavy that he must come to Gabranth’s quarters only in secret, when his lord brother as often as not keeps Larsa in his bed ‘til the valet’s arrival.

Gabranth holds Larsa close enough there can be no denying his body’s desire, and Larsa looks up at him in cautious hope. He sighs, and asks, “What would you have of me?” and Larsa smiles for him again, all brightness.

This is not how Vayne asks it, this _what do you want_ rather than _what shall I do to you_, and their courtship is new enough Larsa comes up short for an answer, unknowing how he’s expected to—what Gabranth wishes to hear him say.

Vayne’s touches telegraph his desires: the lingering hand upon his cheek and jaw in the early evening before his lord brother was called away as good as any verbal promise of his intentions for the night. Larsa wants for Gabranth to erase that claim, for his voice to rasp with _his_ use if only for a few days. Such is the safest option, regardless—his throat will surely recover before Vayne’s return to the capital, while his gait is a more uncertain thing.

“I want for you,” he begins, for Gabranth has made clear Larsa’s desire is prerequisite for his own, “to fuck me hoarse and spill down my throat.”

Gabranth shuts his eyes, drops one hand to the front of his trousers; takes hold of himself and hisses out his breath as if in pain as he tightens his grip.

“To what end…” Larsa does not _think_—they have done that much before, surely if he did not find it pleasurable—

“If I were to come now, this would be over before it began,” Gabranth says in the way of a confession.

“I haven’t touched you,” Larsa marvels.

“You needn’t.” He reaches for the buttons at his waist. Larsa catches his wrist, fingers not nearly able to close around it.

“I wish to,” Larsa says, and Gabranth allows him to work open the buttons, draw out his cock with both hands spanning its width, slip smoothly to his knees that he might make good on his promise.

“Lord Larsa, it should not be you who kneels for me.”

Larsa ignores him, only kisses the tip of Gabranth’s weeping cock, then parts his lips to mouth at the head, sucking him enthusiastic and messily, and for all of Gabranth’s lip service to propriety he only gives a ragged gasp and clutches once more at the base of his cock. Lips slick with pre, Larsa allows himself a proud smile. It is because of him that Gabranth is so undone, and he’s done hardly anything yet to earn it.

His voice low and rough, broken for his devotion, Gabranth bids with all formality gone, “Please, Larsa, I want—I need this to be good for you.” And then, an order: “Touch yourself.”

Larsa’s breath catches, hesitating at the order—stupid, _stupid_—and the sound above him is wrath and disappointment both. Larsa doesn’t want—but he _cannot_ ruin this, cannot disappoint, and so he lets one hand fall to loosen the drawstring of his pyjama pants before matters are taken out of his hands, wrist wrenched vicious between his legs and a large hand over his own. As his fingers curl around his own cock tears spring to his eyes; he forces himself to open his mouth wider, take another ilm so his lord brother might not notice his crying.__

_ __ _

It’s Gabranth who shoves Larsa off of him. He throws out his hands, clutches at the fabric of Gabranth’s trousers—Gabranth closes a hand around Larsa’s arm and drags him upward, strong enough to wrench it from the socket if he only cared to, if Larsa did not scurry to his feet, and then—then lifted off them, gathered into Gabranth’s arms, held to his chest and balanced on his hip like a child. Larsa clings to him, buries his face in Gabranth’s shoulder, and weeps.

_ __ _

Gabranth carries him to the bed, sitting back against the pillows with Larsa safe in his lap, murmuring reassurances in his ear, his own voice choked and his cock soft against Larsa’s hip. Larsa’s sobs come slower in time; he cannot gauge how much. Gabranth has before sat with him and stroked his hair until the sun rose, pausing only to wipe away his tears, expecting nothing of him in return. Now, his voice soft, he asks, “What would make it better? Would you like to stop?”

_ __ _

Larsa shakes his head into the join of Gabranth’s neck.

_ __ _

Gabranth hesitates. “If—if it is obligation which leads you to say so, know that I am content to simply hold you.”

_ __ _

“No,” Larsa breathes, “no, I want it.”

_ __ _

Gabranth smooths down Larsa’s hair, kisses the top of his head as he scrubs the tears from his cheeks with his thumb. “Would you prefer, then,” he says, careful, careful, “if _I_ touched you?”

_ __ _

“_Please_,” Larsa gasps.

_ __ _

Gabranth inches Larsa’s pyjama pants down his thighs, baring his cock, but his first touch is the callused pads of his fingers running soft over Larsa’s thighs and belly, raising gooseflesh on the smooth skin. “You’re so beautiful,” Gabranth breathes. He touches Larsa as though he is porcelain; Vayne has never handled him so gently, and it has been years since he has come close. Larsa takes quick, shallow breaths through parted lips, a blush high in his cheeks that burns all the more for the feeling of Gabranth’s cock filling against his bare thigh.

_ __ _

When Gabranth at last closes two fingers around Larsa’s cock, engulfing the full length of him, _he_ is the one who moans for it, pre beading upon the head of his own hard cock. Larsa tilts his head back into the crux of his elbow, licks his lips before catching the lower between his teeth, rocking his hips up into Gabranth’s touch. He is—_so_ kind. Larsa does not know how he ever came to deserve something so lovely as this.

_ __ _

He reaches for Gabranth’s cock, wrapping his fingers around his girth; peels back Gabranth’s foreskin to thumb at the head as the pad of Gabranth’s own thumb slides the length of Larsa’s cock base to tip with his two fingers curled beneath it. Larsa’s hips stutter in Gabranth’s lap as he rubs small circles into the head of his cock, covering all of it at once where Larsa’s own touch seems so inadequate to give _him_ pleasure. “Am I doing well enough?” he asks with trepidation, willing to risk correction in order that he might please him.

_ __ _

“_Yes_, always,” says Gabranth, only candor to be found in his voice. “That you but live is enough to bring me contentment for all my days.” Without letting go of his cock Gabranth takes hold of Larsa’s chin, tilts back his head, at long last grants Larsa the proper kiss he has dreamed of for so long; Larsa finishes—making no mess of Gabranth’s fingers, no issue yet to give—with a cry swallowed up by Gabranth’s lips.

_ __ _


End file.
